Page 3 of Christmas with the Billionaire
I feel you, buddy. Love hurts.
“Thanks for hanging out with me,” I groan, propping my head up with my fist. The movie shifts to a sunnier scene, a stark contrast to my mood. “Tell Frank I appreciate his sacrifice, too.”
Talia laughs, the sound bright and effortless. The heartbreak on screen doesn’t touch her; how could it? She’s already living her love story, secure in the knowledge that her own leading man will text her any minute to see if we need anything.
I’m starting to think my movie picks are a form of punishment—a weekly reminder of the love story that remains stubbornly out of reach.
“He’s still waiting for his invitation, you know,” she says, her cheeks flushing a tell-tale pink.
I drain the last of my wine, the sweet tang doing little to soothe the huff of frustration that escapes me. “All you two would do is make out or get all handsy. I know your game.”
The last thing I need, on top of my own poorly chosen cinematic misery, is to be a spectator in their live-action romance. It would be a special new layer of torture.
Her giggle is all the confirmation I need. We’ve been friends for too long.
Pushing myself up from the couch, the world tilts slightly, and a giggle slips out. “Need a refill.”
“Grab more snacks!” she calls after me, already re-absorbed by the screen.
In the kitchen, I hum to myself as I shove a bag of popcorn into the microwave before tending to my empty glass.
As I pour, staring into the swirling pink liquid, the hollow feeling in my chest expands. Talia is sweet, but these bi-weekly rescues are a kindness I can’t always accept gracefully. She’s my best friend, and she worries I’m lonely.
Two years shy of thirty, and my love life is a graveyard of almosts and not-quite-rights. A few hopeful weeks here, a failedmonth there—nothing that ever made me feel like dismantling my carefully constructed standards.
Why is the bar so impossibly high?
Or is it just that one man in particular has been holding the standard for a decade, his silhouette blocking out all the other contenders?
The wine kisses the rim of the glass, and I jerk the bottle back, avoiding a spill. Staring at the full glass, the metaphor is painfully clear. My heart is just like this. One man takes up all the space, leaving no room for anyone else to even breathe. Even though I haven’t seen him in years, he’s still there, a phantom tenant who refuses to be evicted, ruining my chances at a future with anyone else.
Sounds kind of pathetic, Ellie.
The popcorn begins its frantic crackling and thumping in the microwave. I take a careful sip of the rosé, the cool glass against my lips a fleeting comfort. It’s a shame, really. No matter how much wine I drink, I’ll never manage to drown the memory of Charles Thornton.
The man who etched his name onto my heart in permanent, elegant cursive. The same one who, against all odds, somehow still remembers I exist, even as he’s become someone important. Someone I only see in news articles and professional headshots.
A hotshot with my heart still in his back pocket with one knockout smile.
My gaze drifts, snagging on the coffee table tucked in the corner. There, propped against a vase of flowers—no doubt sent by a meticulous secretary—rests the magazine. One that I had to go out of my way to hunt down for.
His face is right there on the cover, staring back at me with a confident, slightly amused glint in his eyes.
Charles Thornton, the caption declares,One of Citrine Bay’s Top Sexy Bachelors.
Way out of my league? The league doesn’t even exist. It’s a different universe entirely.
Just thinking about him now, about the stark difference between the polished man on the cover and the boy who was once glued to my brother’s side in ripped jeans, feels like trying to grasp a dream. It’s unreal. A fiction.
The old, familiar question, worn smooth from years of handling, surfaces again. If I had just found the courage to tell him how I felt before his family whisked him off to their empire… would things be different?
The fantasy is a dangerous comfort, a single, shining moment where I rewrite our history. I’d like to think so.
A sigh deflates me, leaving me feeling emptier than before. Charles Thornton isn’t just a memory; he’s my personal curse, a beautiful plague I can’t seem to recover from.
A sharp buzz against my stomach cuts through the melancholy. I fumble in my hoodie pocket, the motion automatic. My screen glows with a message from an unknown number. Normally, those are instantly banished to the digital void—my phone knows my contact list is a curated collection of fewer than ten people.
Expecting a message full of suspicious links that’ll try to encourage me to click, I pause when I see it’s the opposite.
